He hit the call button near the bed over and over again.
A nurse rushed in and saw his panic. "It's all right, honey," she said. "I know you're scared, but...everything will be all right. I'll send the Doctor in to talk to you...just hang in there."
It didn't help much. The Doctor returned. "Don't try to speak yet...I know it hurts. Let's try a few things. Can you lift your right arm up, and hold it for ten seconds? Then lower it and try your left?"
He tried. He could. Why did the man want to know that?
"Okay..." he said. "Very good. You have motor control...I'll get you something to write with...so you can ask questions."
He handed Biff a pad and paper. Biff held the pen in his right hand, and was having trouble. "Try your left," the doctor suggested.
Biff did, and was surprised that he found it easier. "What did you do to me?" he wrote.
"We discussed this before you went under. The Reallocation formula determined there were an excess of football players...and a serious lack of black students...problem solved."
Biff pointed at his chest angrily.
"Oh, yes...that. Well, we were able to get a significant grant to your school. The problem is...the grant was for programs to support young women of color. And...after that, if you maintain a certain grade point average...we can get you a full scholarship to the school of your choice..."
Biff struggled to get to his feet...or rather her feet. He had only seen part of him, but the Doctor confirmed what he thought. He was angry and panicking.
